


Teetering on the Edge of a Blade

by Hoodoo



Series: The Bar at the End of the Universe [14]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Instruction, Knife fight-ish, Safety, Scary anger, Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 20:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15670401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: Like the rest of them, the SEAL Team member with mismatched eyes occasionally visits the Bartender privately.





	Teetering on the Edge of a Blade

**Author's Note:**

> A little bit of hc here: I always assumed the Rick with the mismatched eyes and bandana was the commanding officer of the SEAL Team Ricks.
> 
> Obviously set after [What's a Girl Like You …](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12693741/chapters/28944801), this story is referenced in and takes place before [What Evil Lurks in the Heart of Rick?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12885510/chapters/29436045).

Out of all the SEAL Team Ricks who visited you, their CO, the Rick with mismatched eyes, remained the most aloof. It wasn’t that he didn’t show up at the Bar and expect to accompany you home occasionally, he just remained distant. There was never much discussion, and never any light banter between the two of you. He was enigmatic. He liked what he liked, expected you to figure it out, and that was that. 

He liked sloppy blow jobs. He liked you on your knees, genuflecting up at him, your face red and make-up--if you’d been stupid enough to wear non-waterproof mascara--smeared while he face-fucked you. He liked you gasping for air while your hands were held in his tight grip above your head, or while they were behind your back. He never used any kind of binding, he just expected you to keep them there. That could be difficult when he used so much force it knocked you off balance. 

You could redeem yourself by apologizing and calling him sir while you caught your breath before diving back in. He liked to come on your face, and occasionally in your mouth. 

In return, he used his hands and fingers to get you off. He wasn’t one for going down on you, like Cornrows did, and he never wanted anal, like Shaved Head. He never indicated he wanted regular sex, like the others. His preference was something more detached, even though he occasionally liked to steal your panties as a memento. 

You never called him out on that. 

He liked when you addressed him as sir when you were using your mouth on him or when he touched you, even when he could hear the playful sarcasm behind it. 

Surprisingly, for the slightly dismissive way he seemed to like to treat you, he never left early. Other Ricks could treat time with you more like ‘wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am’, but he always stayed the night in your bed, laying quietly next to you. You didn’t know if he actually slept; your eyes closed before his did, and he was always watching you when you woke up. 

The only time he ever engaged in penetrative sex with you was early one morning, before dawn. A thunderstorm had rolled in, keeping it just as dark at six in the morning as midnight had been. Typically you slept till late morning, but a flash of lightening so bright you saw it through your eyelids and a clap of thunder that shook your place snapped you awake. 

Rick didn’t mollify you. But in the dark of your bedroom, lit only by the random flashes of lightening and accompanied by the relentless sound of driving rain, he climbed atop you, between your legs, and fucked you. 

It was a surprise but not unwelcome. Like all Ricks, he was lean, but the SEAL Team were the only ones with a surprising amount of muscle on their frame, and that made his body familiar and new at the same time. You clung to his shoulders and cried his name, rivalling the noise of the storm. For once he didn’t seem to mind you not calling him sir. 

What was unexpected was that he didn’t pound at you hard or fast. He pushed and pulled his cock in and out of you slowly, deeply, with a tenderness that bordered on revenence. 

You tried to make it good for him too, lifting your hips to meet his thrusts, wrapping your legs around his waist to keep him pressed fully within you for long moments before relaxing so he could move again. It was hard to tell if what you did increased his pleasure because he was quiet. No words slipped out of his mouth, he only uttered the occasional pant and almost silent moans. Close to the end, he buried his face in your neck. His breath was hot. You clutched at him: his waist, his ass, and his movements became shallower. He rolled his hips instead of thrusting. Even his final groan, when he finally came inside you, was subdued. 

When he was done he pulled away, off of you, and once again used his calloused hand to stimulate you to orgasm, brushing your clit, slipping fingers into your cunt, using his own come as lubrication. It was erotic enough to make you come hard on his hand.

Another burst of lightening was timed correctly enough for you to see a smile flit across his face as you drifted down from the high he’d graced you with.

Gorged on pleasure, you fell asleep before he did. Again. 

The next morning, he was watching you when you opened your eyes, as usual. Still feeling pleasantly blissed out from the unexpected fucking, you smiled sleepily at him.

“Morning.”

He grunted a response, but took a second before rolling over and out of your bed. You watched with an arm curled under your head as he collected his clothing and began pulling it on. He’d only gotten his lower half covered when you scooted over and stood up too. You found a pair of panties and a shirt and grappled yourself into them.

“You want some breakfast?”

“No.”

You studied him. He pushed his hair up and back into its standard spikes. He’d carefully made sure his holster was strapped tightly to his leg, but left his belt undone and didn’t put on a shirt. He dug through a pocket on his pants and came up with a battered pack of cigarettes.

Smoking wasn’t your favorite thing, but you’d long since learned that Ricks developed cigarettes that didn’t leave an offensive stench anywhere. 

Rick shook one out and held it between his lips as he fumbled for a lighter. Flicking up a flame, he inhaled and kept the breath in his lungs while he returned everything he’d found to his pockets. He released the smoke away from you as you moved next to him.

Taking a chance, you asked, “You okay, Rick? I mean, thanks for . . . this morning. It was something different. I liked it. I hope you liked it too, it was nice. Was it the storm? Did it remind you of something-- _oh!”_

You cut yourself off as Rick spun on you wildly. Startled, you lost your balance and caught yourself on the wall as you tried to back away. He grabbed you and you’re so surprised you can’t even react to his swift, out-of-the-blue anger.

“Don’t you _ever_ try to get in my head,” he snarled, slamming you against the wall. For several beats you stayed there, his grip crushing your wrists. Finally, his mismatched eyes softened. “It’s too dark for you.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Nothing of this morning made sense. He released you and you stayed very still. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” you whispered. 

“No!” he barked, making you jump. “Is that what you want right now?! _Do you want sex right now?!”_

You’re confused but decide to answer him honestly, even if you’re scared. “No . . .”

He studied you, and seemed satisfied with your answer. He took another drag on his cigarette while you continued to stand with the wall at your back.

“You-you should’ve been able to push me off you,” he stated conversationally, and once again you’re confused.

“Sir?”

He gave you an annoyed wave. “Don’t call me that right now. I could have done some serious damage to you right then. Why didn’t you fight back?”

“Uhm . . .” You tried to think of an appropriate response to that reasonable question. “I guess I was scared? And you have a knife, so . . .”

“So-so-so what? You’re willing to be a, a victim?”

Jesus. What was going on with him this morning? 

Rick took another drag on his smoke, studied you with his odd eyes, and finally said, “Come on.”

He walked out of your bedroom. You had no real option but to follow him. 

You watched him from your living room, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably, as he rummaged through your kitchen drawers. By the time he found whatever he was looking for and came back to you, his cigarette had burned down to the butt. 

He pinched the last ember out of his smoke and rubbed the small amount of ash remaining the handle of a wooden spoon. Then he flicked the butt towards your kitchen sink. It bounced off the counter and into the bowl. He offered the spoon to you, handle outward; you took it by the bowl gingerly.

Holding his own wooden spoon loosely in his hand, he said, “Okay. Stab me.”

“Uh . . . what?”

“You heard me,” he answered, annoyed, and nodded towards the utensil in your hand. “That’s a knife. Stab me.”

You have no idea where he’s going with this. Half-heartedly, you jabbed the handle at him. 

Quick as a snake, Rick side-stepped the motion, right up in your personal space, to the outside of your arm near your elbow and shoulder. The spoon he’s holding pressed lightly to your neck. 

“You’re dead,” he said with no emotion, then stepped back away from you. “Do it again.”

Now you kind of understand the game he’s playing. You jabbed again and again; he countered quickly, decisively. You lose each time. Sometimes his makeshift knife touched your throat. Sometimes it’s in your stomach. Twice it nudged a specific spot on the left side of your chest, and he informed you that a blade would have slipped between your ribs and into your lung; with a little more pressure and if it’d been a longer knife, it would have made it to your heart. 

Occasionally he just disarmed you. He talked you through with actual step-by-step pointers when he did that, instead of expecting you to glean the information on your own. He let you practice by repeating what he instructed on him, slowly at first, until you were more comfortable with it. 

You started waiting when he told you to come at him, watching his stance, looking for openings. You try to make yourself unpredictable. You feigned, or moved the wooden spoon to the opposite hand. You kept it hidden, and only went to stab him when you were close. You moved more quickly to surprise him. 

He admonished you to follow through. To put your back and shoulder into it. He told you to aim at a target behind him, and punch through him to get to it. He taught you to watch his eyes to see how he would telegraph a movement. He repeated over and over that you not be a victim; your life was in your hands. Nobody else’s, he insisted, especially when you were by yourself. Some things you’d already been told, but a refresher was welcome. 

When you finally stopped, you were sweaty and panting. He was not. 

He dropped his hand, loosely holding his wooden spoon. “I think that’s enough.”

You nodded, and took a step towards him. He held out his hand for your spoon, and slickly, just as he had at the very first, you slipped to his side, passed his outstretched arm, and put the end of the handle just to one side of his spine in his back. 

He looked surprised, then chuckled. 

“Kidney,” you told him, like he didn’t know. “You’re dead.”

Laughing out loud, he shook his head. “Who taught you that?”

“A couple of Ricks from your team. You’re the only one who’s given me knife fight instructions though.” You stepped away and finally handed him the spoon. “I figured it would be easier to get to your kidney than reach over your arm to your neck.”

“Could’ve gone for between the ribs,” he suggested. 

“And risk the blade just glancing off the bone while I was close enough for you to grab?” you countered. “No way.”

Rick chuckled again and nodded. “You learn quick. That’s good.”

That was the most mirth you’d ever heard from the SEAL Team CO, and the only praise you’d ever received that didn’t directly correlate to something sexual you were performing. You were pleased with yourself. 

He dropped your spoons onto your table and headed back to the bedroom to collect his shirt. There’s a smear of cigarette ash on his back where you’d pushed the spoon’s handle, marking the kill.

When he returned, he’s fully dressed and the small amount of levity is gone from him again. Still, you move back near him. 

He never let you kiss him, and this time is no different. In uniform, he held himself straighter, more distant and superior again. His eyes, one dark and the one so light there’s barely color to differentiate it from the iris, studied you a moment. He didn’t mention or explain the unanticipated sex he’d had with you eariler. He didn’t say anything except, 

“Stay safe.”

You wished you had something to answer to that, even just, “you too.” But he didn’t wait; he never waited once he had decided to go. He turned on his heel, opened a portal, and was gone.

You couldn’t begin to understand most Ricks, but he was the most puzzling to you. 

_“It’s too dark in there,”_ he’d told you, about his thoughts. 

You wondered if you’d ever ask him about his past, or what he meant, but based on the response you’d gotten before he decide you needed some self defense skills, you weren’t sure if you’d ever have the courage.

_fin._


End file.
